


5 Times Natasha Asked Steve (Because No One Else Would) + 1 Time She Didn't

by coquillagement



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Chocolate, Comfort Food, Cooking, Friendship, Gen, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Ouch!Steve, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Thor - Freeform, Tony is a Friend, sad Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7560196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquillagement/pseuds/coquillagement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha trusts Steve. Steve trusts Natasha.  She asks the questions no one else will. And hears the stories no one else hears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Watched Pot

**Author's Note:**

> I love the friendship Steve and Natasha discovered in The Winter Soldier, and how strong it has become by Civil War. This takes place in the "everyone lives in the tower" era before Ultron. Featuring a cameo by Clint Barton. Aiming for a 5+1, hoping I make it. Thanks for reading.

“ _Don’t_ go into the kitchen.” Clint’s nose was wrinkled in distaste as he stepped into the elevator, loudly expelling two puffed cheeks of air and dramatically sucking in more.

Leaning against the back wall of the car, Natasha couldn’t summon the energy to so much as roll her eyes over whatever argument or mishap was about to be detailed. She had just come in from 48 hours of shadowing a person of interest who was spectacularly less than interesting, and she really just wanted a hot shower and a soft bed. But Clint planted himself in front of her, barefoot in t-shirt and pajama pants, all raised eyebrows and sporting a serious case of bed head. 

(She fleetingly envied him whatever sleep he’d had, at the same time recognizing it couldn’t have been much. He wouldn’t have lain down much before midnight, so 90 minutes at best and he was back to feeding his caffeine needs. Neither of them asked why the other was up anymore. ) 

“Don’t you even want to know why?” Clint’s gesture of disbelief was muted by the full coffee carafe in his right hand and the three powdered donuts in his left. 

Natasha leaned forward and plucked one of the donuts from his grasp, ignoring his indignant yelp. “Rule is you have to share your snacks after 1 AM.” She took a prim bite, licking the powder from her lips. “Especially if you’re warning me away from the source of said snacks.” 

“Yeah, well I could be saving your life,” Clint scowled. “Cap is boiling things. Big pots. Steam everywhere. And it does not smell good.” 

Steve was another character who did not surprise them with his nocturnal habits, although they usually leaned more toward punishing punching bags or, conversely, staring out at the city. 

“Cooking is a new one,” she allowed. 

“Right? And the whole floor smells like cat piss. And swamps.” Clint took an emphatic bite of donut. “So jus’, stay away. ‘n don’ accept any foo’ he offers ‘ou.” 

Natasha pushed off the wall as they stopped at her floor. “Better take this, then.” She swiped the last donut, laughing at another dismayed whine. “You love me,” she reminded him, blowing a kiss as the doors closed. She turned toward her rooms and the only steam that mattered: the type that billowed out of hot showers for hour upon hour. 

 

Somehow it was only 20 minutes later and she was roughly shutting off the spray. “God _damn_ it, Rogers,” she muttered. “And God damn it, Clint.” The water had been just this side of scalding, her muscles relaxing, her mind wandering when she realized she was mentally compiling a list of what Steve could cook that smelled like cat pee. Which led to wondering why on earth he would, which in turn conjured up that melancholy “even when I had nothing” face and _God damn it, Rogers_. 

She wandered downstairs cocooned in her fluffiest robe. At least she could feel like she was in bed. The smells hit her as she padded down the hall. One comfortingly familiar, the other, well, Clint was accurate. Turning the corner to the shiny chrome kitchen, she found Steve standing before the eight burner stovetop, hair lank and face flushed by the steam billowing from three sizeable pots. A barely perceptible nod acknowledged her entry. 

“Parsnips.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“Parsnips.” Steve scooped up a yellow vegetable, looking at her for the first time as he presented it on a long slotted spoon. “That’s the objectionable odor.” 

“Oh.” Natasha pulled back, not trying to mask her grimace. She recognized the non-greeting as an offer to stay, and settled onto a stool a fair distance from the cooking. Although the room opened onto a dining and living area, there was a large enough wall of cabinets to trap the clouds of moisture in the kitchen. A glance at the silent exhaust fan and she realized the effect was intentional. She burrowed a little further into her robe. “I think maybe I’ll settle for just the cabbage.” 

“I thought as much,” he agreed, eyes again downturned as he tended Tony’s bubbling Calphalon. The man brooded like an Austen hero. Three stirs clockwise in one pot. Three stirs in the next. Three stirs in the third. And start again. She gave him two more circuits before she asked. 

“So what is this, Rogers?” 

A slightly deeper breath was the only indication he had heard her. He continued stirring. One, two, three. One, two, three. Just as Natasha decided she had lost him, he started. 

“You know, the parsnips,” he began, with the quick tilt of his head that Natasha classified as an apologetic tic, “God, they smelled so awful. Tasted pretty awful, too. Apparently they’re much better baked.” He shrugged. “But, we didn’t know that. So. Boiled it was.” Steve searched through the kitchen drawers, coming up with two potholders. “My ma,” he turned off the leftmost burner, “made me sit right by the pots, breathe in the steam. Bucky said I smelled like a back alley. “ He snorted to himself, allowing a brief, fond smile before he slowly emptied the pot into the sink, the pieces thumping dully into a waiting colander. “One time we ate ‘em for a week straight. Swore I’d never eat ‘em again.” 

He stood for a moment, hands braced on the sink lip, fingers gripping the potholders. He was wearing pleated khakis and a white cotton undershirt, and as his head dipped momentarily Natasha glimpsed the small Steve Rogers they’d seen in the Camp Lehigh photo. 

_Was his clothing a conscious choice? Does he even realize how he’s dressed?_

He reached for the next pot, methodically moving it to the sink where another colander waited. She’d no doubt there was a third ready, measured and deliberate as his actions were, ingrained in some kitchen long ago. The cabbage he drained quickly, returned to the pot and covered. The third pot turned out to be potatoes, and received the same treatment. Task finished, Steve stood uncertainly before the stove, worrying a checkered dish towel. Natasha watched his lips part, waited quietly as his face went slack, watched his eyes staring but not seeing. 

“I can’t find him, Nat,” he swallowed. 

She knew. Of course she knew, she had every line of intelligence open trying to help. Still, the rawness of his confession…she’d heard that gutted voice before and hadn’t liked it then. 

“Where were you today?”

“Montreal. “ He wasn’t going to look at her. She knew that tactic, that shred of self-preservation. “It was a slim lead.” 

“Worth following.” 

“I guess.” That head tilt again. _Wearing self-doubt that plainly is why you’re not a spy, Rogers_. Just Captain America. Looking like a lost little boy. 

Like she needed a second Clint Barton. 

Like she had a choice. 

“Sit down.” Natasha pulled out a second stool and patted the seat as she herself stood. “That means do it,” she added as Steve hesitated. He sat obediently as she pulled two bowls from the cabinets. She scooped a healthy dose of still-warm cabbage into both, adding some potatoes to Steve’s and mashing them with a fork. Some pats of butter, some pepper, and _vualya_ , late night comfort for two. 

For a man whose go-to look was “stoic,” Steve had an easily-read face once he took off Captain America. As she set his bowl down and he lifted his brows up, she catalogued bemusement, pathos, appreciation, fatigue, maybe a little hope. 

“You didn’t think I’d walk away from this feast?” she asked as she settled next to him. “Be nice if we had some black bread, but… Tea might work.” 

Steve’s mouth turned up slightly, and Natasha counted that as a victory. “Tea and cabbage,” he mused. “The Russian and the Irishman.”

“You get the potatoes, too, Mick.” She elbowed him. “Eat.” Steve poked at his food until he finally took a bite and gave a small, genuine smile. Inordinately pleased, Natasha got up to put on hot water. A pungent smell reminded her of the outcast vegetable. “Hey,” she called over the running water. “These parsnips are still here. You going to eat them?”

Steve answered with his mouth full. “Hell no.”

“Well what’s your plan for them, master chef?” 

“We can’t waste—“ He caught himself, and she knew without seeing that his mouth was half open, lashes blinking slowly as he looked up, down, to the side. “Um. We’ll put the cabbage away for you and me. Potatoes, anyone’ll eat.“

“The parsnips?”

This time she looked. Steve was paused with his fork over his bowl, studying the contents. It took a few seconds before he took a deep breath, paused, and exhaled. 

“Nobody here’s gonna eat those,” he said firmly. “We’ll toss ‘em out.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Natasha answered, and if she pressed her eyes closed for an extra beat, it was nobody’s business. “Once we finish our tea.”


	2. Say It With Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha trusts Steve. Steve trusts Natasha. She asks the questions no one else will. And hears the stories no one else hears. Team is living in the tower. Reference to Chapter 1 but you don't have to read it to enjoy this chapter. Now with chocolate!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint insists on being in these stories. I have to get away from the angst eventually. But not today.

Smashing ceramic and Richter-scale laughter had Natasha second-guessing her destination even before she heard Clint shout down the hall. 

“You don’t wanna walk in here!” 

“Indeed you do not!” Thor’s voice followed, along with the splat of a soft projectile against a hard surface.

 _Oh, indeed I do_. She had a date with some organic dark chocolate that frat boy antics were not going to deter. Alert for incoming, she eased around the wall to the kitchen. “Cover anything indecent boys, I’m coming in.”

“Oh shit.” Barton stood amidst an orchard of smashed fruit, shattered mugs, and Keurig cups, juggling a milk pitcher, a hammer and a meat cleaver. A blob on his sweatshirt looked suspiciously like pudding, and coffee grounds decorated his boots. “Hey Nat?” Clint didn’t look away from his task. “Let us finish this bet before you kill us, OK? Thor, getting bored here.” 

Thor turned from rooting through disarrayed cabinets, brandishing a cardboard tub of loose oatmeal and a devious smile. Clint spared a glance and frowned. “Really? That’s it?” 

“So you yield!” Thor declared, happily intimating the shame of such action. 

“ _Hell_ no. You may have noticed I’m juggling a meat cleaver? Bring it.”

Nat nearly flinched – nearly – as Clint tossed the china pitcher out of his orbit toward Thor, who fumbled it once, twice, with a touch too much flair before scooping it into his enormous left hand. With his right, he lobbed the oatmeal tub in return. The juggler deftly palmed the container and hoisted it into orbit in one move. “Balanced breakfast, coming up.” 

A scant second later, the oatmeal heavens opened, leaving Clint doused in a cloud of uncooked cereal. “Shit!” 

“And coming down,” Natasha observed as Clint sneezed. 

A laughing Thor applauded. “Bravo!” He started when Clint flung the juggled hammer at him, but caught and twirled the ordinary tool in his fingers, grinning when Clint turned his attention to brushing oats out of his hair. 

“Nice one, man,” Clint admitted with begrudging appreciation. He shook his head like a dog on the beach. 

Natasha offered three slow claps. “Very nice. Very mature.” She settled onto a surprisingly clean stool at the outside counter. “Now one of you, far left cabinet, top shelf, red tin and you better not have touched it.”

“Not that stupid,” Clint snorted. Thor made a great show of reaching to extricate the tin and handing it over, bowing. His chivalry was dampened by the milk dotting his long hair and dripping onto bare arms. 

Natasha handed him a napkin as she wiped the lid of her tin and opened it. “Do you own any clothing with sleeves?”

“They are constricting.”

“Not if you don’t wear them Steve-sized.” She chose a black velvet Alter Eco truffle. 

“Oh, Nat, not nice not to share,” Clint complained, leaning on his broom handle to watch her. 

Nat slowly peeled open her morsel. “Clint,” she sighed in a most patronizing manner, “this is chocolat. This is not chawklit, for messy little boys.“ 

“Right. Organic, clean, pure, Fair Trade, carbon footprint, blah blah. If you don’t want anyone to eat it, why do you keep it in here?” 

“Why do I keep guns all over the tower?”

Clint conceded her point with an agreeable shrug. 

“Exactly. But because I’m nice, you can have some of this after you clean up.” 

Clint dutifully returned to cleaning the floor. “So, about Steve…”

“When were we talking about Steve?” Nat admired the chocolate held in her fingertips. It really did deserve a ritual.

“You brought his name up. Anyway, he’s assembling a harem.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Close to ten are chosen,” Thor added. “Small by Asgardian standards but a fair start.” 

Nat turned to Thor, incredulous. “You have harems at home? Are you serious?”

“Em, not in the same sense as on Midguard of course,” the god backtracked. “That is, not with any claim of ownership, or exclusivity…” Thor flustered could be more fun than Steve flustered. 

Clint slapped a washrag across Thor’s face. “We’re talking about Steve’s harem.” 

“And why is that, anyway?” Natasha’s red box moment was not supposed to include a pestering Clint.  
“You’re in charge of Steve’s love life.”

“I really am not, Clint.” 

“But you know what’s up with him.”

“This conversation clearly proves that untrue.”

“But he talks to you.”

“More so than to myself, it seems,” Thor puzzled, enormous arms crossed and hand at his chin. “I asked him about his assemblage of partners. He chose to not answer.”  


And now Natasha had to imagine how, exactly, Thor had worded his query and how Steve’s eyebrows had reacted.

“So we gotta know, Nat,” Clint pestered. “Before Stark takes matters into his own hands.” 

“Tony knows about this?”

“Jarvis knows. Stark must know.” 

“And how do you know about it?”

“He sends flowers,” both men replied in unison, and wasn’t that frightening.

Natasha looked from one to the next. “Neither of you is having any chocolate until you explain Steve’s flowers.” She bit off half of her own square for emphasis. 

 

Steve’s door stood open, the norm on quiet days. A slow ballroom arrangement of horns floated from within. He had his back to her, large frame curled ridiculously over his writing desk and was humming. Natasha leaned against the door jamb, no longer surprised at the smile she felt forming. After the helicarriers, she’d stopped fighting the effect a contented Steve had on her. 

“Hey, Rogers. You have a minute?”

Steve spun in his old banker’s chair, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head. “As in sixty seconds?”

“Well,” she half-shrugged. 

He waved her in, dropping his pen onto the table and heading for the kitchen. “Will this minute require tea or something stronger?”

Natasha started wandering the open living space, surreptitiously making her way toward Steve’s desk. “Just tea. For now.” Steve tried attempted a put-upon look from behind the marble counter. Marble because Stark had to provide the best when including a personal kitchen on each Avenger’s floor. Because some days superheroes needed a place to burn their own dinner. 

Or boil offensive vegetables. 

She straightened up from perusing Steve’s bookcase. “Rogers, why didn’t you cook your godawful parsnips up here instead of the common floor?”

“I wanted to share.” A small lopsided smile undermined his innocence. 

She rolled her eyes. “No thanks for that.” Because boy had he shared, driving people from the kitchen in olfactory distress, sending up a steam-signal of despair. Parsnips. She smelled it in her nightmares. In apology he held up her usual tea mug, black and red which she was sure he’d purchased for her visits, and all was forgiven. 

Reaching the recently-abandoned desk chair, Natasha sat and took a slow spin, hearing the creak from the ancient spring. She ran her fingers along the dinged wood of what Steve called his writing table, really just an old table with a raised back and slots for stationery. Its genteelly battered presence made Tony groan and made Steve happy, as did his bare floors and the scatter rugs that reminded him of home. Hardly an unusual comfort, other than Steve’s “home” was a time more than a place. And he, unlike she, missed his. 

Five sealed envelopes addressed in Steve’s working man’s print were stacked on the desk. A blank one lay next to them, pen alongside.  
Natasha lifted one. “Are these letters to your harem?”

Steve’s head snapped up from his preparations. He stalked toward her with an irritated huff. “Could you put my personal mail down?”

“Ah, they are.” She wiggled the envelope in her fingers. “Wouldn’t have figured you for it.” 

Frowning, he plucked the letter from her hand and escorted her away from the table. “I was taught it’s not polite to go through people’s papers.” 

“Obviously you’re still not a spy. All’s fair on a mission.”

“And here I thought you’d come for the tea,” he sighed, heading back and grabbing milk from the fridge. “So. Let’s have it.”

Natasha leaned over the counter. “Clint and Thor think you have a harem.” 

The milk carton thudded onto the counter but Steve recovered quickly. “Well. That explains why my shield brother expressed his appreciation for my virility.” 

“I’m sure that’s nicer than Clint would have phrased it, if he had the balls to ask.”

“And hence your visit.”

“Finding out things Clint doesn’t know is one of my life’s joys.” Following Steve from the kitchen, Natasha curled into her usual seat, a soft leather club chair. “And the company here’s not bad. Maybe even a little mysterious.” 

“Says the super spy. I guess I’ll still give you your tea.” He settled across from her, presenting her oolong. 

“So…” she opened.

“How did they find out?”

“They were fairly mum, except they knew you were sending flowers. Jarvis, any idea?”

“Miss Romanoff, Captain Rogers, I cannot with any certainty say how Misters Barton and Odinson discovered your actions. I remember them, on a particularly soporific afternoon, searching through the outgoing mail. I did ask them to cease, but they may have seen letters prior to.” 

“And the flowers?” 

“I am afraid they simply followed you, Captain.”

“You order flowers in person?” Natasha interrupted. “God, Rogers, that’s so…” Steve stared at her with raised brows, daring her to finish her thought. “So you.” 

A nod let her off with a warning and he continued with the A.I. “You saw them?”

“Not as such, but I did overhear them discussing the plan. I hope you know that I in no way mentioned anything about your actions.”

“Of course not, Jarvis. Thank you.” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I’m obviously not working those two hard enough during downtime.”

If he was thinking up horrible new training exercises, Natasha could only hope they weren’t meted out on the entire team. Still, digging up the dirt on this would be worth it.  
“OK. You’ve been busy sending flowers to different women.” 

Steve smiled, an actually full-faced bashful smile, his eyes lighting as he busily stirred his tea. “I have. Swell dames, each one.” 

“Each one. Exactly how many are there?” She couldn’t stop her own smile. His shy effusiveness was contagious. 

“Seven. Vera, Kit, Lorraine, Sue, Tessie, Lorna and Lula.”

“So much for that upright Captain America reputation.”

He chuckled. “Never liked that myth anyway.”

“Gee, tell a girl. Might’ve made setting up dates easier.” Steve actually dipped his finger into his mug and flicked tea at her. She ducked, grinning at the unexpected laughter. “What are you, six?”

“96.”

“Right, and not kiss-less. These lucky ladies, who are they?”

Steve settled back and she took note of his khakis and button down shirt. He was practically glowing with nostalgia. “They’re the gals who made Captain America.” His fond smile dropped to a scowl as she smirked at him. “And no, not in the way you’re thinking, get that look off your face. These are the girls who took an oversized, terrified mook who was gonna ruin their show, and taught him how to say his lines, how to stand where he was supposed to, how to look at the audience, even how to punch Hitler.“

“Ah, the true heroes.” These women, with names she and the team would consider old fashioned, were Steve’s contemporaries. His mentors, in a sense. “You remembered their full names? All of them?”

“Can’t forget.” He tapped the side of his head. “But I didn’t know their married names, the ones who married. And I only knew the states they were from originally. Did you know there are at least 100 Susan Potters in Ohio? Turned out she’s Susan Luzinski now. Lives in Florida.”

“Doesn’t everyone.” Natasha tried to imagine Steve in Florida, wearing Cuban shirts and playing shuffleboard with Susan. “After sifting through 100 Susans, how many others did you look for?”

“There were 20 girls – women – in the chorus. Jarvis helped me look. Some had passed. Some I couldn’t find records either way. I mean, there were plenty of stage names. But these girls,” again he smiled to himself and met her eyes. “I remember them, they remember me.“ 

“Shared life experience. “

“Shared life experience. I figured a good way to say my first hello in 70-something years was with flowers. Those girls sure did love to get flowers. A gal got a single daisy and walked on air for a week.“

“They’re really important to you.” 

“They are. They were. I had this brand-new body, but I was still a guy with no idea how to talk to women. Who were suddenly looking. Winking. Touching. The bolder ones tried to kiss me after shows.”

“Poor awkward Steve.” 

“That’s…an understatement. I realized this was stuff the girls had to put up with. They taught me how to remove a misplaced hand and politely say no kisses. I escorted them past handsy guys. You know, I was older than all of them, but they called me their little brother. I sure wasn’t Captain America, not for real. I wanted to see how their lives went, how they made out.” 

“To talk about some old times.”

“Yeah, sure. Trains and hotels. The lyrics they would make up to the show songs. The flirting. Making me learn how to help with their hair, even. Being in Europe, in the camps, where sometimes we heard the big guns from the front.”

“And you kept them safe in your enormous arms?”

In a beat Steve became Cap, leaning forward. Serious. Protective. “Did I hold one or two of them because they were frightened and cried? Yes. Sometimes because they were worried for their guys in the fight. I was always grateful they never held it against me that I wasn’t out there, the way some people in the press did. They knew how much I wanted to go.” 

Natasha gave a moment for her gaffe to pass, watching Steve defend the women he’d comforted decades ago. She knew how it felt to have his reassurance extended to her when she’d felt vulnerable. “It sounds like you were a great team.” 

She didn’t want to let go of this conversation, this story of Steve and his USO sisters that he wanted to tell. 

“They were mostly great girls. Some wanted to go into showbiz, some were just trying to get by. Some really wanted to help sell bonds.”

“Any romance?”

“Nat,” Steve set his mug on the table for punctuation.“What is your obsession with my love life?” 

She faked examining her nails.“Clint told me I was in charge. I’m covering my bases.”

“Well, no. I had– No.”The second no was softer. Steve was leaning all the way forward now, elbows on his thighs, looking at the floor in front of him. Time to bring this story back to the present. 

“I can see why you’re writing to all of them. Even if certain adolescents in this building can’t.”

“I think I would have kept up with them,” Steve offered, maybe confirming it to himself. He looked up through his lashes, that open, honest view that spoke of his trust in her. “For a while, maybe. I imagined us having a reunion somewhere, and they’d have husbands and new babies, or agents and movies. Sometimes we’d talk about that on tour, who would have the most kids, who would live where, who would go Hollywood.” 

“What’d they say about you?” Now she was virtually pulling this conversation away from morose. And Steve was heavy. 

“They said if I ever learned to actually speak to a woman without fainting, I could have any gal I wanted, and an army of blond, blue-eyed children.” His eyes closed as shook his head.

“You didn’t believe them?” 

“Well, I knew, I thought about –“ For a second his gaze strayed far beyond her, into his long-ago yet recent past, before he gathered himself with the familiar head tilt and wry smile. “Brown eyes and brown hair tend to dominate blue eyes and blond hair,” he finished. “That’s what I knew. “ 

Natasha just nodded and picked up the tea mugs, heading to the kitchen to give him a moment. Saying she was sorry would make no difference. Telling him she understood would be a lie. “What lucky dames. You’re a good guy, Steve Rogers.” 

“That’s what they always said.” 

“Are you going to see them?” She knew the answer but asked anyways. 

“No.” He paused, then stood up, repeated himself more forcefully. “No.“

Natasha rinsed the mugs, pleased with herself. “I can find out how their husbands feel about the flowers.”

“No! Nat, geez.” He reached her and grabbed a dishtowel.

“You’re sure?”

His eye roll was impressive. “Yes, I’m sure!” 

“Alternate plan, then.” She swiveled past him. “Put on some Jimmy Dorsey. I have this chocolate...”


	3. Dispatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha trusts Steve. Steve trusts Natasha. She asks the questions no one else will. And hears the stories no one else hears. Team is living in the tower. Chapter 3 has no sad Steve. It has hurt Steve, pissy Steve, pushy Tony and a Nat wants to pull her hair out. Some character angst lingering below surface..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Natasha. It's not always easy being the one who "gets" Steve. And also sees where Tony's coming from. But it's a good thing she does, even if mediating might kill her. Brief description of fairly serious injury. Nat patches up Steve. Reference to knife injuries. See if you can spot where Natasha says goddamnit.  
> I was surprised how the "So was I" line inspired so many people to argue that Steve and Tony weren't possibly friends. Perhaps not besties, but they worked together, lived together, were friendly and concerned enough with each other's futures at the end of AOU. So, this. Meanwhile this story, which we join in progress, is a snapshot. I'm not going to write about what came before or comes after. Feel free to play that fanon in your head.

Natasha was on alert, yet the hand that flew up and grabbed her wrist still startled her with its speed. “Mission abort,” she whispered into the com on her free wrist, answered by a “shit!” on the other end. 

Below her, the target sighed. 

“You know, the whole ‘sleep to help healing’ plan only works if you stop waking me up.” Steve released her and brought his arm carefully down to the bed. “I’m talking to you, Stark.”

Natasha stepped back from where she’d been leaning over Steve, trying to assess his status. He remained still, broad back turned to her as he kept pressure off of his right side. 

“Just concerned, Captastic,” Tony answered via Natasha’s com. “As a teammate and friend.”

“ ‘n mad scientist. You know how I heal. Didn’t need to Nat to report in.” 

Nat felt a bite of guilt.

“Caap, Cap, Cap, Cap, this is different, you’ve never been ─”

“Been everything, Tony.” The immediate drop in Steve’s tone was intimidating even if he hadn’t moved a muscle. “Shot. Stabbed. Burned. Beaten. Chitaried. Drowned. Frozen for a few decades. If you’re bored, pull up files. Not in the mood.” 

Of course, Tony didn’t do intimidating. 

“Come on, Cap. Give me something.”

Oh, Natasha knew Tony was coming from a place of guilt. She knew he was blaming himself for Steve’s armor breach and ensuing injury. He would stay up all night inventing something more protective. But 4:00 AM with an injured and aggravated captain was not the time for his lack of social graces. Steve was already on the edge between little and no restraint. 

Luckily Tony couldn’t object as she spun for the door, trying to figuratively slap a hand across his disembodied mouth. 

A second too late. 

“It hurts, Tony. That what you wanna know?” 

_Ёптель-мопсель!_ She stopped, so close to escaping before the long-distance argument worsened. But Steve’s voice had an order in it she couldn’t ignore. Deflated, she turned to see that he had rolled over and pulled himself to sitting. 

Despite his pale face, he was radiating angry team leader. “I’m very uncomfortable,” he reported to the ceiling, teeth gritted. “It was painful. My body doesn’t like losing pints of blood. But that’s stopped. Everything’s fine. We’ll debrief tomorrow. Right now you’re needlessly compromising security. And we need to keep the com open for Clint.” 

Predictably, Tony bristled. “Security? Not like we’re on a payphone here, Cap.”

She should run. Now. 

“ _You_ ,” Steve snapped, glaring at the com and indirectly Natasha, "are endangering this mission. Go to bed, go talk to Jarvis, just get the goddamn _off!_ ” 

Natasha had shut down the com and was in the safe house living room before Steve’s sentence was finished, spitting nails of her own as she re-established the connection. “Stark, I know you don’t know when to stop. Let me explain. That was time. That was past the time. I should have shut you down the minute you started.”

“Don’t be overdramatic, Agent Romanoff.”

“Don’t push that last button, Tony,” she shoved the snark back at him. “Steve didn’t move during that conversation. Didn’t raise his head. Didn’t gesture. Not until you pissed him off enough to make him sit up. Do you understand what I am saying?” 

“That he feels worse than usual which is why we need to check his stats.” 

“That you goaded him into probably reinjuring himself. All so he could yell at you. I’m going to have to see if the bleeding started again and deal with that.”

“Will you tell me if it has?” 

“I’m not even going to comment on how ghoulish you sound.

“It’s a point of pride.”

“You are very lucky that you are not standing here now. I am very fast with a knife. And trust me, I know which parts you’re most attached to. If I could do it through the com I would."

“I could work on that from this end.”

“Not funny. Look, like Steve said, Clint will contact us when he’s done with his job and we’ll see you tomorrow. And I swear to God, Tony, if Steve is worse because you don’t know when to shut up, I will in fact eviscerate you. 

“Nat, seriously you know I need answers.”

“I know what you need, Tony, and why. I’ve got it gift-wrapped for you. Meanwhile why don’t you try tracing how this very human group of arms dealers got their hands on a weapon we’ve never seen before, that was powerful enough to take Steve down with one hit.”

“Even the Chitauri beam couldn’t do that,” Tony murmured, and Natasha knew he was seeing patterns and graphs in his head. 

“No. It couldn’t. You’ll have your hands on the thing tomorrow. Find out where these guys got it.”

“On it. Night, Nat.”

“Morning here, Tony."

“Ask Cap ─” 

She turned off the com. 

Steve, as expected, was still sitting up. He had partially peeled off the series of square bandages Natasha had taped on, and was straining to examine the gash that ran from his ribs to his hip. The straight slice looked like it had been made with a surgeon’s scalpel. The swelling and burning said a disgruntled intern had followed with a blowtorch.

Naturally, it was bleeding again. 

Natasha mentally threw her hands in the air. “Get your hands off it and lie back down.” 

Steve remained mulishly upright. “Wanna see if it’s healing.” He craned his neck and poked at the inflamed skin, wincing with each touch. “It feels different.” 

“Interestingly, Stark wanted to see the same thing but you shut him down.” She moved his fingers away from the wound, noting how easily he acquiesced. “It is different, Steve. We’ve never seen anything like this.” 

“We’ve got the weapon.” Steve had the sense to only shrug his left shoulder but it clearly hurt. “Bruce’ll find answers.” 

“Be nice if we had a live henchman to question.” Once they’d made it to safety, she’d momentarily regretted killing the last man. Momentarily. 

“Nothing else you could’ve done or we’d both be dead. Prefer it’s them.” He tried to muster his reassuring look but glassy eyes dimmed the effect. 

“True.” She prompted Steve to roll onto his left side, arms stretched in front of him, and started wiping away the blood that was weeping out of the wound. He yipped an ouch.

“ _’Ouch?’_ Really?” With his side freshly sliced open he had walked stoically to shelter. Touch it with a towel, he squeaks. 

Steve determinedly ignored her comment. “Strange how they deployed it.” 

She’d pondered the same thing. “Not until the very end of the fight, when it was only the two of them left.” 

He nodded slightly. “Had to’ve had orders not to use it. Why else would you not pull something like that out right away? They grabbed it as a last resort, to protect themselves.” 

“Almost worked.” Natasha started pressing new gauze squares to the injury. The cut was deep and the burns extensive. “This is pretty horrible.” She counted a beat and spoke along with Steve. 

_“It’ll heal.”_

“It’ll heal.”

Steve scowled. “It will,” he insisted as he sucked in a breath. ”Always does.” 

“Might need some extra help this time. We have no idea what kind of energy hit you and what damage it did.”

“Like I said, Bruce could do it.”

“And Tony, yes. I hear they’re pretty smart.”

“ ’f not Bruce, maybe Dr. Cho…”

She may at that point have pressed a little harder than necessary against Steve’s skin. Who’s to say? He jumped and looked at her in betrayal. She stared him down, watering puppy eyes and all. “Are you really that childish?” 

“What?” Steve gave an approximation of the terrible liar face and she did not have time for it.

“Tell me you’re not purposefully avoiding saying Tony’s name. The guy who will be testing that weapon 24/7 until he gets answers for you? Tell me you’re more mature than that.” 

Steve wouldn’t look at her. They were four-year-olds, both of them. 

“You really don’t want to admit that he is trying to keep you safe, do you? You as much as any of us. He’s feeling guilty as hell that you’ve been hurt and he’s going to stay up all night trying to improve your suit.” She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling worn herself. “I know you’re in pain and tired. I know he’s an insensitive ass, but there’s a purpose to his badgering. Tony will help with the weapon. Tony will try to help determine whether you’ll be all right, and it would be nice for all of us if you’d let him.”

“Next you’re gonna say he’s obnoxious ‘cause he likes me.”

“Next I’m going to discuss your co-workers. Do you think you’re the only one of us who needs to keep his teammates safe? Who would do almost anything to make that happen?” She talked right over his forming comment. “You’re not. You’re noble, you’re sincere as hell, Steve. Every one of us trusts you with our lives and looks to you to make the call. You have to know we’d do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too. Including Tony.”

“I...” Steve had laid his head down with an exhale, his back to her once again. “This went in a unexpected direction.”

Natasha placed more gauze and he flinched at her touch. Some teammate, deliberately hurting him then talking about trust of all things. Still he nodded for her to continue while speaking half to himself. “Know I was wrong about Tony when I met him. Knew soon as I watched him fight. Soon as he took the missile. He’s sarcastic. ‘nnoying an’ combative…”

“You’re stubborn and straight-laced and combative.”

“M’not straight-laced.”

“No, you’re snarky and underhanded, but he likes to say that.”

“Tasha,” he complained. His fatigue was palpable. 

“Steve, do you trust Tony?”

A soft snort. “Mostly.”

She smiled to herself. Understandable. 

“Do you consider him a friend?” 

“Oh. Back to passin’notes.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah. Yes. I consider him a frien’.”

“Tony,” she confirmed.

“Tha’s who we’re talkin’ about.”

“Then do me a favor.” She gently taped down the final square. “Take his friendship. It’s not all that bad.”

Steve lazily waved the fingers of his left hand to indicate he’d heard or he agreed. She couldn’t ask which as he had drifted back to sleep. 

Natasha switched out the bag of IV fluids she had insisted he accept and drew the soft cotton sheet up to her sleeping friend’s shoulders. She’d wait to hear from Clint. Tomorrow they’d be back at the tower. Steve would get better treatment. They’d figure out the who’s and what’s of the bizarre weapon sitting in the corner.

And she’d have good news for Tony.


End file.
